


Snapshots

by Queen_Valkyrie



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew, fem!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Valkyrie/pseuds/Queen_Valkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gavin's getting real tired of the shitty pictures the newspaper always posts of the Fake AH Crew's heists.<br/>So he decides to submit his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr that said “Consider a fahc Gavin who is still super into cameras, still seems to see and process life in frames and shots and perfect timing like RL Gavin appears to. A Gavin who gets so fed up with the shitty images run by the Los Santos media after every incident, shaky, unfocused monstrosities taken by the terrified public, that he starts submitting his own.”  
> Challenge Accepted.  
> P.S.- I love the idea of Gav as the hacker of the crew, and as such, he’d never really participate in heists anyways, so I think the guys wouldn’t really mind him running around taking pictures as long as he makes sure his hacks hold up.

Michael was winning. He had known Ray for nearly forty years now and still had never beaten the sniper at any video game. But today was the day that would change. Ray had fucked up and chosen a shitty track in Mario Kart and Michael had gotten all the good powerups and finally, _finally_ , he was winning.

That was, of course, until Gavin decided to screw him over.

“Dammit!” The Brit erupted, slamming a newspaper down with such force that Michael dropped his controller in surprise, allowing Ray to speed ahead.

Ray let out a triumphant cackle as Michael sunk down into the black leather of the couch, a furious wail escaping him. “Gavin,” he whipped around, “You just made me lose, you British fuck!”

“Ah, get over it, Michael,” Gav replied, his shoulders hunched over, sullen and looking mildly pissed off.

“The hell’s the matter with you, Gavino?” Geoff inquired, sticking his head out from the kitchen, where he was cooking up something fantastic-smelling for breakfast.

“Well _I’m_ fine. It’s the damned Los Santos newspaper that’s got a problem.”

“Is this about their pictures again?”

“They’re not just _pictures_ , Geoff! They’re _art_. And the reporters or civilians or whoever don’t get that. They’re failing to capture our heists, our work, in the way it deserves to be captured!”

“What’s so bad about them anyway?” asked Jack, leaning over from her spot on the barstool next to Gavin’s.

“Everything! Look,” he says, jabbing a finger at the picture on the front page of the paper. They all moved to observe the photo, the two other lads begrudgingly pulling themselves off of the couch, Geoff setting his spatula down on the kitchen counter, even Ryan stood up from his place on the floor where he was polishing his pistols.

“First off, the exposure’s all wrong. This was probably taken with a shitty smartphone camera, which clearly isn’t _smart_ enough to adjust itself to the proper exposure levels for explosions and fire. It doesn’t capture the essence of the detonation. You should look at an explosion and feel the heat radiating off the page, smell the gunpowder burning, flinch from the shock of the sound. This shitty picture doesn’t even capture the blasted _colors_ correctly. Also, if you look in the top left corner, you can see the car entering the frame when Jack did that ramp-stunt-thing, but the camera doesn’t move fast enough to take a completely still shot, so it’s all blurry, and unless you were there, you don’t really know what that black blob on the edge is.”

“Your point?” Michael asked, lowering one eyebrow.

“My point is that if the paper’s gonna bother posting pictures of our shit, they should be more selective on what they pick. This garbage--” he jabbed at the newspaper again-- “doesn’t even _begin_ to capture the beauty of what we do.”

Geoff let out a snort. “Well, buddy, unless you wanna send in the pictures yourself,” he joked, “You’re gonna have to put up with it.”

With that, the rest of the crew returned to their activity.

Little did Geoff know, but (to his future dismay) he had planted an idea, a terrible, brilliant, stupid idea in the Brit’s head.  
………….

Agent Joel Heyman of the LSPD let out a long sigh.

Another heist, courtesy of the Fake AH Crew.

More civilians to comfort.

More Burnie to deal with.

And most importantly, more paperwork.

Honestly, he didn’t give two shits about the property damage, or the money stolen, or the injured members of other gangs. He was just pissed off at the unavoidable stack of paperwork that Burnie was sure to shove off onto him every time the Fake AH Crew decided to increase their already never-ending stash of cash.

And of course he’d have to inform the newspapers, and the reporters would plaster the story all over the front page again like the Fakes heisting was some big news, and they’d come crawling to him asking for opinions and tactics on how to take the crew down, even though everyone knew they were basically untouchable at this point (to be fair, it was only he and Burnie that knew the Fakes really _were_ unkillable, trust him, they’d tried plenty of times, all with no luck).

What he _wasn’t_ expecting was an envelope on his desk, no address, just his name scrawled in green pen on the front.

He picked it up gingerly, not sure what he was going to find, and, ever so slowly, slid his finger under the flap, ripping the paper away from the glue.

Inside was…

Photo paper.

Pictures.

It was a good stack of pictures, too, must have been at least fifteen or so.

Some were just pictures of the area itself; there was a before-and-after duo of the bank the Fakes had robbed, its white marble pristine and perfect in the first photo, but charred with scorches from the flames that leaped out of the windows in the second.

There was a picture of the squadron of cop cars that formed a tight circle outside the bank, before any of the officers had stepped out, attempting to be menacing with their red and blue lights flashing.

The best pictures, however, were the ones of the crew in action.

Ramsey in the center of the bank’s lobby, with the civilians on the floor, an AK in one hand, the sleeves of his trademark tuxedo rolled up to show his impressive collection of tattoos, the grin on his face so wide it pushed his perfectly curled supervillian mustache up to touch the bottom of his nose.

Pattillo in her obnoxious hawaiian shirt, leaning out the front door of the crew’s car, yelling at the boys for something-or-other, attempting to look angry, but an almost motherly love glinting in her hazel eyes.

Narvaez on the roof of a nearby building, his purple hoodie clashing with his hot pink sniper rifle, glasses off, eye against the scope, his tongue sticking out in concentration.

A particularly impressive shot of Haywood, The Vagabond, hanging off the side of the Fakes’ car, pistol in hand, his arm sweeping in a wide arc as the bullet exploded out of his gun, trails of smoke and a hint of fire licking out of the pistol’s face. Joel imagined there was a laugh hiding underneath the already grinning skull mask as the legendary mercenary reveled in his favorite pastime- chaos.

His favorite, however brilliant the others were, was a shot of Jones, down on his knees, propping himself up on the weight of his grenade launcher, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion, but his face up, a trail of blood streaming from his forehead down the right side of his face, his mouth curled into a snarl, his eyes ablaze with rage. He was backlit by one of his famous explosions, and the flaming orange-red color of the blast lit a warm glow around his nearly-silhouetted figure, coloring the tight curls of his short-cut auburn hair a dark red.

For a second he wondered who could have possibly gotten so close without getting killed themselves, but it hit him almost immediately.

The only person the Fakes wouldn’t kill on sight for being so close during a heist was one of their own.

Free. Unless the crew was attempting break-ins or, for a rare challenge, unnoticed heists, he wasn’t needed, and Joel knew from seeing the kid in action that he wasn’t exactly the most effective when it came to active crime (unless you counted pickpocketing).

Not that Joel would bother telling anybody.

He too had been getting annoyed with the shitty-ass photos the newspaper plastered on their front-page spreads about the Fake AH Crew. Some quality would be nice for a change.

So when he went to deliver the story to the Los Santos Times, he took the envelope of photos with him and dropped them off at the editor’s desk.

“Sorola,” he said, tapping the envelope, “You make sure whoever’s writing the article on the Fakes’ heist gets these.”

Gus gave him the thumbs up as he continued to type at his computer.  
………….  
This time, it was Geoff who was reading the paper, not Gavin.

The leader of the crew was seated on one of the red leather armchairs, reading the latest paper and the latest front-page article on the latest heist of the Fake AH Crew. It was more well-written than some of the stories he’d seen before. That was a plus. As he turned the page to the back of the article, his dark blue eyes widened in surprise. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

Jack turned her head towards him. “What’s up, Geoff?”

“Check this out.”

Unseating herself from the couch, she stood behind him and looked over his shoulder at the paper.

On the page was a spread of pictures- gorgeous, award-worthy photos- of the heist, in full color, glaring up at them with heat and emotion and life, and they shared a knowing glance. “Gavin,” they said in unison, Jack sighing and Geoff practically growling.

She snatched the newspaper out of his hand and they both stormed into Ray’s room, where the others were hotly debating the latest events in a game of Mario Party.

“Gavin David Free,” she accused in her best disappointed-mom-voice, “What the hell is this?” 

She dropped the paper on Gavin’s lap with a thud, and as his eyes moved to the photo spread, a grin of childlike joy widened across his face. “They put them in,” he murmured.

“Put what in?” Ray asked, stealing the paper from Gav and showing it to Ryan and Michael, who both turned to the Brit in anger when they saw the photos.

“Gavin,” Michael snarled, “You can’t send in pictures to the police, you’ll get caught!”

“I sent them in anonymously!”

“They can track the emails you sent them from, you fucking idiot!”

“I just dropped them off at the station in an envelope, Micool! No email required.”

“I can’t fuckin’ believe this,” the demolitions expert sighed.

“Wait a second,” Ryan’s deep voice echoed. “Gavin, check this out.”

He pointed at a line of text underneath one of the photos- so small it was barely readable.

 _To whoever sent in these photos_ , it read, _meet me at Melusso’s on Saturday. 7 pm. And bring proof._

“Gavin Free,” Ray chuckled, “I think the reporter just asked you out on a date.”

“Wait, who’s the reporter?” Gav asked, scrambling to grab the paper out of his fellow lad’s hands, but Ray stood up and held it high above his head, glancing to find for the name himself.

“Looks like…” he searched, “Turney. Meg Turney.”


End file.
